Agent 011
by ValBirch
Summary: A Stranger Things AU in which Eleven is a brilliant, telekinetic super-spy and Mike is her dorky and supportive tech genius.
1. Prologue

**I.**  
In June, the heat was stifling. With his forehead pressed up against the glass of a sixteenth-floor window, Mike Wheeler could practically feel the stickiness of the weather, despite the air-conditioned building he was spending his day in. Gazing out at the perfectly still trees just beyond the high metal fencing that kept out unwanted visitors, Mike could think of only two things. One, he was mind-numbingly bored. And two, it was beyond unfair that he had to spend the day cooped up in his father's office while his friends rode their bikes up and down Cherry Street without him. Eyes rolling to the back of his head in frustration, Mike gathered all his strength to keep from cartoonishly banging his head against the window in anguish and instead let out an exasperated sigh, hoping it would draw his father's attention. It didn't.

Mike had spent the entire morning working on his latest campaign, scrawling in his messy handwriting across the wrinkled pages of his well-worn notebook, but had been unable to regain his focus following lunch in the tenth-floor cafeteria and had spent the last hour fidgeting. Worst of all, he had forgotten his comic books at home—Mike could see them clearly, set on the decorative table just inside the Wheeler's front door. Eyebrows furrowed together, Mike turned away from the window and glanced over to where his father sat, keyboard clacking as he typed away. Mike watched with feigned interest as complex code appeared on the screen with every clack, his father writing a software program.

"I'm going exploring, dad," Mike said finally, pushing himself away from the window ledge on which he had been leaning. Ted didn't look away from his screen, but mumbled something that Mike took to be permission before he plodded off, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans and fishing around for the five-dollar bill his mother had handed him that morning. Maybe he'd go back to the cafeteria and have a snack—the cookies were surprisingly delicious.

As Mike shuffled down the hall, passing carbon copies of his father's office, towards the imposing elevator, his mind ran through several possibilities for how he could spend the remainder of his afternoon and, before the elevator doors were fully open, he had made up his mind to skip the cookie and venture into the basement. Basements were always creepy and maybe he'd find some cool old piece of equipment he could smuggle out to show Lucas, Dustin, and Will.

Mike's first problem came as the elevator closed, doors coming together with a deep metallic click. He reached out to press the button marked with a large letter **B** and frowned when nothing happened, the elevator remaining stationary. Mike tried the button several more times to no avail before noticing the small black scanner just below the button pad. He rolled his eyes. Of course he needed an identification card to work the elevator; that much should have been obvious. This was a government building, after all, and it wasn't like they let any weirdo walk in off the street. Just as Mike began wondering how long he'd be waiting in elevator limbo, the machine began to descend, pausing on the fourteenth floor for a group of three people to enter. Quietly, Mike observed as one of the occupants, a tall and severe looking blonde woman in a pantsuit pressed a rectangular white card against the sensor before hitting the button for the tenth floor. _Cafeteria_ , Mike thought, sinking further into the corner by the button pad, hoping to be ignored.

The elevator stopped several times during its descent, a cheerful _ding_ sounding each time the doors opened for busy-looking adults to enter or exit. The only constant in the small, square space was that Mike continued to be overlooked, though he didn't mind this. As a quiet kid, it tended to be easy for him to remain unnoticed, a trait that allowed for adventures to often find him. And, at that particular moment, Mike had little idea just what kind of adventure would find him that afternoon.

It was while the elevator was at its most crowded that someone entered on the fifth floor; a short, balding man in thin wire-rimmed glasses who tapped his keycard and pressed the button for the second floor. Mike carefully shifted his arm and quickly pressed the **B** button, unable to help the small smile that spread across his lips as the button became outlined in red. When the elevator reached the ground floor, Mike pressed himself into the corner, adults bustling out until he was alone, an exhilarated feeling coursing through his veins.

Finally, with a dull thud, the elevator came to a stop at the basement and Mike slid out between the doors before they had even fully opened. Immediately, as his eyes cast their first glance down the long hallway he had just entered, Mike had the sinking sense that he was not meant to be there.

This was not a regular basement—not by a longshot—and it was nowhere near what he had imagined. Everything looked so white and clean, almost sterile. It brought to mind distant memories of the hospital his grandma had stayed in while she was sick a few years earlier. Chewing his bottom lip, Mike continued forward, his sneakers sliding noiselessly across the linoleum flooring. He noted the florescent lights overhead, buzzing faintly, and wondered vaguely what exactly the government was working on here.

He knew little other than that this was a government building. Lucas insisted that it was military and that they made bombs, but Mike wasn't so sure. He couldn't imagine his father—average in every way—working in a place where weapons were built. Besides, the sign outside said the Department of Energy. They probably made lightbulbs. At least, that was what he and Dustin had bet on. Yet, as Mike wandered down the hallway, a nervous feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, he wondered whether Lucas had been right all along.

Mike's musings were interrupted by his second problem—one that would occupy him for the remainder of the summer. Mike's second problem was the sound of screaming. It was far off, yet unmistakable; the sound of a girl yelling, terrified. His heart leapt into his throat and, without thinking, he charged forward—whoever was screaming sounded like they needed help.

As Mike rounded a corner, following the heart-wrenching noise, he came face to face with a white-haired man in a black suit, skidding to a halt just before he toppled into the man. A stern face arranged into a careful frown looked down at him with probing eyes.

"Young man," he said, his voice gentler and kinder than Mike had expected, though he didn't trust that tone, "What are you doing here?"

"I just, uh," Mike was sweating as he attempted to gather his thoughts. "I got lost looking for the cafeteria." It was only half a lie and hopefully he was selling it convincingly. He tried a small, innocent smile—the kind that charmed his mother into allowing him extra dessert. The man raised his eyebrows at him as though he were sizing Mike up and Mike felt immediately uncomfortable under the inscrutable gaze.

"This is a restricted area," the white-haired man continued, eyes narrowed, "You'll want to go back the way you came." Mike tensed as a strong hand came down on his shoulder and reversed his direction, guiding him back towards the elevator. "The cafeteria is on the tenth floor."

"Yes sir," Mike gulped and practically leaped into the elevator as the doors opened. He watched nervously as the man leaned in and pressed his keycard against the sensor before hitting the correct button.

"This isn't a safe place to wander around in." The words were spoken as the doors slid shut and Mike let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. There was something about that man that made goosebumps run up and down his neck. And there was definitely something strange happening in that basement.

The screaming he had heard haunted Mike for the rest of the afternoon, as he sat quietly in his father's office, doodling absently in his notebook. When he sat down at the dinner table with his family that evening, Mike found that he had very little appetite, poking at the roast beef and carrots his mother had placed in front of him.

"Is everything all right, Michael?" Karen asked, after his older sister, Nancy, had finished obtaining permission to go to the movies with Barb that weekend. Mike shrugged, not making eye contact. He could feel his mother's eyes boring into the top of his head and forced himself to look at her.

"Yeah," he nodded weakly and scooped some carrots into his mouth, chewing pointedly. His mother's cooking was always delicious, but he was having a hard time tasting any flavours. Swallowing hard, Mike turned his eyes towards his father. "Dad?" Ted looked up from his meal, watching his son and waiting for him to continue. "What sort of work do they do in the basement of your building?"

"Hmm?" Ted looked puzzled by the question and paused a moment, as if thinking, "That's the Research and Development Lab. Why do you ask?" Mike almost rolled his eyes, but resisted the urge. He doubted if his dad had even noticed he had been gone at all that afternoon.

"What do they do though?" Mike prodded, ignoring the confused look he was getting from his sister.

"Well I'm not sure," Ted shrugged and returned to his dinner, "Research, I suppose." Mike's face fell flat. That was not a satisfactory answer. He pressed further, without wanting to reveal his run-in with the white-haired man.

"Do they experiment?" he asked, "On people?"

"What are you talking about Mike?" Nancy chimed in, eyes narrowed.

"Mike," Ted sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses. "They're the government. They protect us. They're not hurting anyone, especially not in the Department of Energy."

Mike wasn't convinced. He opened his mouth to continue, but his mother interrupted.

"You can stay home tomorrow," Karen suggested, "It must be boring."

"No!" Mike exclaimed, too quickly, earning him a quizzical expression from everyone at the table except Holly. "It's okay," he continued, deliberately slowing his voice down, "I had fun. I want to go back."

 **II.**  
In July, it rained. On a dismal Tuesday morning, soggy and grey, his father's office was abuzz with talk of an outage in Research and Development—one that needed to be solved immediately. Mike's ears perked up. This could be his chance. He had spent the remainder of June intent on his father's IT work, learning everything he could about the computer and security systems that Ted was familiar with. And Ted was more than happy to share, impressed and more than a little flattered that his son was finally taking an interest in something other than that strange board game he played with his friends on the weekends.

It was because of this streak of pride that Mike was able to so easily convince his father to allow him to tag along to Research and Development to survey the damage to the electronic security equipment. While Ted and another man, slightly shorter and stouter than his father, were chatting with a woman in a long white lab coat, Mike slipped away, keeping his head down and his ears peeled. The Lab was mostly bathed in darkness, with only a few emergency torches emanating pale orange light down the hallways—the power had to be cut given the inch of water that Mike was currently sloshing through across the floor. Most of the people he passed were wearing construction clothing, contractors fixing leaks, draining the water, and hoping to quickly repair the fried power grid. It was easier for Mike to blend in and, best of all, there was no sign of the white-haired man.

Mike moved down the hallway he had remembered the screaming coming from slowly, careful not to splash too heavily, using the small Yoda flashlight on his keychain—a gift from Will— to keep himself oriented and able to see. The hallway was lined with several heavy-looking doors and Mike's nerves were on edge in the near-blinding darkness. He almost turned back, but was stopped by something that sounded distinctly like sobbing. Ignoring the shaking of his hands, Mike pressed forward into the shadows of the hall and stopped outside a door close to the end. He tried it, surprised when the handle gave, until he remembered that they had cut the power to this wing.

He stepped into the room and used his flashlight to glance around, hearing a sharp intake of breath not more than a few feet from him. Mike swung the weak beam of light in the direction of the noise and his jaw fell open at what he saw, albeit dimly.

There was a girl in the room with him, a girl in a hospital gown. At least, he was fairly certain she was a girl. She had soft and delicate features, even if her hair was buzzed close to the scalp. She looked at him with fear in her eyes, evident despite her squinting in the light. Mike immediately raised his arms up in a gesture of peace.

"Hey," he said quietly, "What are you doing here?" She said nothing, but continued to look at him with those intense eyes. "Do you need help?" Mike continued, his eyes following the beam of his flashlight to her bare feet, back to her hospital gown, then back to her face. Was she sick? Did she live here? It didn't make sense—this wasn't a hospital. Mike took a step forward, shocked when the mysterious girl shrunk away as though she were afraid of him.

"I don't have a lot of time," Mike said hurriedly, "I don't want to hurt you. Do you have a name?" She appeared to hesitate for a moment, then held out her arm towards him and Mike had to do a double take when he shone the light there he noticed a small tattoo on her wrist, tiny printing of three numbers: 011.

"Eleven?" he inquired, his voice quizzical, "What's it mean?" The girl looked at him emphatically then pointed at herself with a firm hand, a finger prodding at her chest.

"That's your name?" Mike frowned. The girl nodded curtly and Mike licked his lips, trying to think of what to say. "Well, okay. Eleven. My name's Mike. It's short for Michael. Maybe I can call you El? Short for Eleven?" Another nod.

Mike opened his mouth to speak again, but the flickering of lights coming back to life caused the words to die in his throat. The sound of voices coming down the hall sent his heart into his feet. He was trapped.

"Go," the girl—Eleven—whispered at him, her voice soft. It reminded Mike oddly of bells and he was glad she could speak.

"But…" Mike began to protest. He didn't want to leave her there, alone and scared, but he felt himself being pushed towards the door, even though his feet weren't moving. He stared at the girl in disbelief as his back hit the door he had entered from, watching as a drop of blood leaked out of her left nostril.

 _No way._

"I'll come back," Mike's words rushed from his mouth, "I promise."

"Promise?" Eleven frowned.

"It means something you can't break. Ever." Mike informed her, "It means I'll be back." He paused, watching her for a moment before the voices got louder.

"Go now," she instructed, firmly. Mike slipped out of the door, glad that the hallway was still bathed in darkness. He shrunk into a corner, willing his heart to keep from hammering too loudly as he saw the white-haired man round the corner and enter Eleven's room.

Mike didn't sleep that night. He was overwhelmed with thoughts of Eleven, who was basically Jean Grey. Why was she locked up in a lab? And how could he help her? For several days, he wracked his brains, desperate to figure out how he could safely return to visit this girl who had captured his interest. On Saturday, four days after he had encountered Eleven, Mike was struck with an idea. He pulled out the Wheeler's phonebook and ran his finger along the thin white pages until he found the name he was looking for.

 **Clarke, Scott—Hawkins, Indiana—260 867 5309**

"Hello?" the familiar voice of his science teacher answered after three short rings.

"Mr. Clarke? It's Mike. Mike Wheeler. I have a science question." Mike nervously played with the cord of the phone. How was he going to adequately explain why he was calling Mr. Clarke in the middle of July with _this_ question, of all things.

"Mike?" Mr. Clarke sounded surprised, "It's summertime. And I'm sure you've already finished all your extra credit work."

"Yeah," Mike gulped, "I have and I know but this is important. It's A.V. Club stuff."

"Well, okay," Mr. Clarke said, "What can I do for you?"

"If I wanted to put a security camera on a loop, would that be possible?" Mike closed his eyes, his palms feeling suddenly very clammy as they gripped the receiver. There was an audible pause on the other side of the call and Mike gulped again.

"Why do you need to know this?"

"Uh," Mike's mouth went dry, "Dustin and I are, uh, it's for...fun?" He winced. That couldn't have been convincing. "And besides," Mike continued, trying to salvage the conversation, "We're trying to open this curiosity door." Another audible pause filled the air, followed by a short chuckle.

"Do you have a pen and paper?" Mr. Clarke asked. Mike breathed a sigh of relief and nodded vigorously before remembering it was July and he was on the phone, not in a classroom.

For the remainder of the month, Mike visited El as often as he could, slowly perfecting his means of sneaking into the Lab. He had used his old library card to craft a false ID badge, coding it with the administrative access codes he'd used his father's computer to locate and he had been able to set the automatic visual loop on the basement security cameras every day like clockwork while his father took a two o'clock coffee break. This, of course, did not guarantee access to Eleven and more often than not he didn't get very far. There were almost always men in white coats and sometimes men with guns lurking in the hallways where her room was. But each day he'd try, always carrying a chocolate bar in his pocket, sometimes managing to steal a few minutes with her.

"Thank you," El took the Kit-Kat, her favourite, from his hands and made quick work of unwrapping it.

"It's cool," Mike grinned, "You're my friend." El's eyes narrowed and she paused midway through biting the chocolate.

"Friend? What is…friend?"

"A friend," Mike pursed his lips—how could she not know what a friend was? Had she lived here her entire life? "A friend is someone you'd do anything for." He gestured towards the chocolate bar. "And someone you share your snacks with."

 **III.**  
In August, Mike came to the troubling realization that he wouldn't be able to visit Eleven once he returned to school and this worried him into several sleepless nights that he spent plotting.

"Look," Mike spoke quickly during one of his visits as El munched on her Kit-Kat, hoping she could keep up. "You want to escape this place, right?" He had never asked her what the men in white coats did to her, but part of him didn't think he wanted to know. El looked up from her chocolate bar and nodded, her eyes sad.

"Yes." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "Bad men."

"Okay," Mike nodded, trying to push back the tears that were threatening the corners of his eyes. "I can probably disable the security on these doors. I've been paying attention to everything my dad does and asking questions and stuff. I can give you five minutes before there's an automatic reset. Do you get it?"

"Yes," El replied, "Today?"

"Do you want to leave that badly?" Without thinking, Mike reached out and grasped Eleven's hand, noticing how she didn't flinch at his touch. She nodded, avoiding his gaze. "Tomorrow then," Mike continued, "Tomorrow is better. Tomorrow at 3:15." El looked at him blankly and Mike glanced around, noticing that there wasn't a clock in the room. He quickly pulled off his watch and slid it into her hands. "When the numbers say three-one-five the doors will open. You'll have to use your powers to do the rest. But there's this drainpipe that's still open from when it flooded, remember that? Yeah, it's just by the elevators. It looks big enough for you to fit through. Got it?"

"Thank you," El tried a small smile and squeezed his hand. Mike felt goosebumps form on his arm and flushed, cheeks burning red. He swallowed, the knowledge that this was probably the last time he'd ever see her sinking in.

"You can do it, El," he said, mouth dry, "And maybe when you're free we can ride bikes and you can meet my friends. I think you'd really like Will and…" His voice trailed off. Even as the words left his mouth, Mike knew there was a slim chance that any of this would happen. If El did get free, she'd run as far away as possible and if she didn't…well, Mike didn't want to think about that. El looked up and their eyes met. Mike could swear he felt electricity. Tentatively, he moved in closer. When El didn't back away, he quickly leaned forward and planted his lips on her cheek for a short second.

"Good luck, El," he mumbled, smiling as he looked down at the floor. "I should, uh, I should go." He stood and, with some difficulty, let go of her hand, taking the empty chocolate wrapper to dispose of. She raised her hand in a quick wave.

 _Goodbye Mike._

Mike heard the words, though he could have sworn Eleven's lips didn't move. Could she…? There was no time to ask. Ducking out of the room, he took a moment to preserve that voice in his memory. It was a voice he'd remember for the rest of his life, a voice he'd not hear again for fourteen years.


	2. One

_November 1998_

Elle Hammond, though she rarely went by that name these days, glanced down at the cinnamon-sprinkled foam atop the cappuccino in her hands and took a small sip before setting the mug back atop its yellow-patterned saucer. She allowed her eyes to travel to the door of the coffee shop once more, roaming over and resting briefly upon each other the other occupants of the small room with a vague interest. A few feet away from where she sat was a couple in their late teens, dressed in denim and very obviously on an endearingly awkward first date, each smiling and giggling at every word that left the other's mouth. A couple tables over, by the window that faced out towards a small expanse of green park, was an elderly woman with thin red lips reading a paperback romance novel, a cup of tea rapidly cooling in front of her. And just by the door, was a young blond man scrawling away in a worn notepad, a guitar case leaning up against the back of his chair. Face impassive, El leaned back and readjusting the sleeves of her crisp white blouse, straightening them at the wrists and pressing the sleeve on her left arm back ever so slightly to check the time.

3:18.

Mike was late.

A small frown etched itself onto Elle's lips. She had grown accustomed to Mike being reliably punctual and the smallest hint of anxiety began to form a knot in the pit of her stomach, her dark-painted nails drumming a terse pattern on the wooden surface of the table as a result. Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, Elle took a moment to gather her thoughts, focusing on the cappuccino set down in front of her, searching for patterns in the cinnamon. Once she felt grounded again, Elle reached into the black bag resting on her lap and pulled out her phone, glancing briefly at its screen.

No missed calls.

Elle ran her tongue across the surface of her teeth, pursing her lips tightly together and, just as she slid the phone back into its usual spot in her bag, the bells over the door jingled, announcing a new arrival. She looked to her left as a cool gust of wind intruded upon the warmth of the coffee shop from the dreary November afternoon outside, bringing with it a tall, lanky man, near her age. His black hair, messy by nature, was windswept and, as he bustled towards her table, he hurriedly swept it away from his dark eyes; eyes that focused in on her with an apologetic look behind black-rimmed glasses that sat askew on his nose. Elle fixed him with a cool stare, eyebrows raised as she watched him shrug off his trim coat, straighten his glasses, and slide into the chair opposite her, slinging his messenger bag over the back of his chair.

"Sorry," he muttered, clearly out of breath, his elbows coming to rest on the table. Elle's expression softened into a grin at the imagined picture of Mike rushing down the street, limbs flailing, that ran through her mind. "The dog wouldn't come inside," Mike continued by way of explanation, pushing his glasses upwards and rubbing the bridge of his nose, sighing deeply. Elle clicked her tongue, her smirk becoming more pronounced as she leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Winslow is trouble," she remarked, fondly remembering the many times she'd had to go to the dry cleaner to remove the drool and muddy paw prints from her skirts and dresses—and not-so-fondly remembering the time Winslow had brought her a dead rabbit during their long walk through Central Park the first (and last) time she had agreed to pet-sit.

"Yeah, well…" Mike's voice trailed off into a chuckle. He couldn't argue with her—his dog, a big and dopey Mastiff and Bloodhound mix, was a disaster in every sense of the word. "I hope you weren't waiting too long," Mike mumbled, changing the subject. Elle smiled crookedly at him and took a deliberately slow sip of her cappuccino. Her answer, or lack thereof, caused Mike to flush a deep red. "I'm going to grab something," he announced, making a move to stand but Elle shook her head sharply and motioned for him to remain seated.

"I told you," she said firmly, "I owed you a coffee after that business in Chicago." Mike's cheeks turned an even deeper shade of crimson, one beyond what seemed humanly possible. He shook his head, but stayed in his chair, knowing full-well that Elle would not capitulate. She bought him a coffee after every successful mission—it had become their tradition.

"It's my job." Mike grinned, his fingers coming up to twist through his unruly hair. "Besides, you could have gotten out of that mess yourself."

"Maybe," Elle laughed softly, "But you're good at your job. And we make a good team." Her voice was nonchalant as she pushed herself away from the table. "What can I get for you?" They both knew she didn't have to ask—Mike always got the same thing, but Elle figured it was the polite thing to do and Mike didn't mind being predictable.

"Just a dark roast," Mike answered sheepishly. Elle nodded and made her way to the counter to order. As she waited behind a tired looking young woman ordering a double—no triple—espresso, Elle's eyes darted back to Mike every few moments. His shoulders were slightly hunched as he stared fixedly down at his phone, fingers working furiously across the button pad. Elle shook her head as the lady with the triple espresso paid and left, wondering, with amusement, who he was hacking now and to what end. She stepped up to the counter and ordered Mike's coffee, along with a blueberry muffin—his favourite—and a shortbread cookie that had caught her eye earlier.

Moments later, order in hand, she returned to their table. A comfortable silence fell between them, as it usually did during these post-mission moments. As partners, Mike and Elle were in constant communication. As friends, they were free to enjoy one another's company however they pleased.

"Remember when we met?" Elle asked finally, munching thoughtfully on the shortbread cookie she had gotten for herself.

"The first or the second time?" Mike raised an eyebrow at her. His tone was playful, though Elle could hear the hint of hurt behind his words. It had been just over a year ago since Mike Wheeler had walked unexpectedly back onto her life. She swallowed the lump of cookie in her throat and took to stirring her cappuccino thoughtfully, watching as the last of the foam was absorbed into the caramel coloured liquid.

 _June 1997_

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was one of Elle's favourite places in the city. Outside of when it was necessary for work, she wasn't entirely comfortable in large crowds of people and avoided public attractions whenever she could, but this place had always been the exception. She found it soothing to sit amongst students sketching away, mimicking the masters, and found herself especially drawn to the soft hues of Monet, relaxing and beautiful, or the long lines of El Greco, violent in a meaningful way.

Today she sat in front of El Greco's _View of Toledo_ , not paying attention to the painting—she had already committed each of its details to memory—but focused instead on the book pressed open across her lap, a half-eaten Kit-Kat in its partly crumpled red wrapper resting on its pages as she read.

"Lovely shades of blue."

A man's voice, gentle and slightly tentative, accompanied a creaking of the bench she sat on, indicating someone had sat down beside her, someone who had just spoken the code she had been given earlier that morning.

So, this was to be her new partner. Elle almost dreaded turning around.

"I prefer the greys," she said quietly, closing the book and looking up at the stranger. Elle was certain that for a moment her heart stopped, refusing to beat as her own eyes met the darkest orbs she'd ever seen; eyes she had never forgotten. His face was the same too—a smattering of soft freckles, intense cheekbones, messy dark hair. He wore glasses now, but it was a familiar face nonetheless and it was frozen in shock. She knew, from his parted lips and the earnest expression in his eyes, that he remembered.

"El, it's you."

That's when her heart started beating again—she felt it jolt back to life inside her chest, tight and breathless as it was. He remembered, not only her face, but the name he had given her, the one she had taken to using all these years. She found it hard to think of something to say. Mike was looking at her as though she were a ghost, though she supposed that was exactly what she was to him.

"You escaped." His voice, dropped to a whisper, continued after a beat of silence.

"Yes." Elle bit her lip and said nothing more, memories of that day pushed far into the back of her mind and hidden under lock and key. She remembered only Mike's encouraging words and the press of his lips against her cheek. There was a silence, tense and awkward, filled with fourteen years of questions and doubts. Elle noticed, but didn't mention, the shaking of Mike's hands in his lap.

When Lucas had revealed his new partner would be Agent Eleven, Mike had, of course, entertained the fantasy that she would be the mysterious girl from his past. But he had never thought it possible, never more than just a hopeless fantasy from a small part of him that still longed for closure. All the field agents had codenames. It was just a coincidence.

Yet, he had noticed the Kit-Kat on her lap as he approached and it had dried his throat. When she spoke, the sound of her voice was unmistakable and he felt as though he were living an out-of-body experience.

"This is crazy," Mike said finally, voice quaking. "Can I…can I hug you?"

Elle hesitated a moment. She had always been reserved. But Mike had saved her life—years ago, yes, but that didn't change the fact that he had been her first friend. Swallowing her reservations, she folded her book closed and nodded. Mike noticed her discomfort and remained still.

"Never mind," he said softly, "Is everything, uh, how's it going?" Elle grimaced inwardly. He was just as kind and thoughtful as she remembered and it wouldn't be easy to tell him what she was thinking, but she supposed it would be best to get it over with quickly.

"Mike," Elle tried to smile, to soften her voice, "We can't work together."

"What?" Mike looked at her in shock. She noted, with relief, that his voice was incredulous and not angry. "Why not?"

"History," she replied simply.

"What do you mean?" Mike looked concerned. "Do they not know about…about what you can do?"

"No," Elle shook her head, "And I'd like it to stay that way." She wasn't particularly interested in having her powers known—that information in the wrong hands could be dangerous. It had landed her in a cold and sterile laboratory for the first twelve years of her life and she had no interest in disclosing or repeating that story.

"El," Mike was impassioned, earnest, "I promise, your secret is safe with me."

"Mike…"

"Listen, please," Mike interrupted her, "Do you know how I got this job? Lucas. Lucas was my best friend growing up and he hired me because I'm really good at computers—like, really good, but that's beside the point—I've known Lucas longer than anyone else and we were friends that summer that…the summer when I met you. I never told him anything, I swear you have to…"

"Mike. Be quiet." It was Elle's turn to interrupt. Over his shoulder, she had noticed someone familiar enter the room. Mike frowned and looked at her quizzically, concerned by the intensely focused expression on her face.

"Were you followed here?" she asked, leaning closer to him. Mike shook his head.

"No," he said, "Definitely not."

"Follow my lead," she whispered, grabbing his hand, "And don't turn around."

 _November 1998_

Elle felt her phone buzz from its spot in her bag at the exact same moment she heard Mike's beep in his pocket. Their eyes met over the table and they couldn't help the laugh that they shared.

"Duty calls," Mike groaned as he pulled his phone out and glanced at the screen.

"I suppose it's convenient for Lucas that we're together," Elle shrugged, standing again and draining the last of her cappuccino before sliding into her long trench coat. Focused on its buttons, she didn't notice Mike's cheeks turn pale pink as he quickly downed the remainder of his coffee.

"I guess so," he mumbled, following her example and making quick work of his coat. "Shall we?" He gestured for her to lead the way and El navigated around the cramped tables of the coffee shop before stepping out into the cold afternoon air, her eyes immediately falling on the black SUV that was to be their ride. Mike walked along behind her, slipping ahead at the last possible moment to open the door of the car. Elle playfully rolled her eyes and Mike grinned at her

"After you, Agent Eleven." He made a mock-gallant gesture, half bowing and half waving her towards the door. Elle swatted at his arm and she climbed into the SUV, shifting to the far side to make room for Mike.

"What do you think it is this time?" he asked as he closed the door and settled in beside her, "Top secret documents? Preventing an assassination? Aliens?"

"Definitely aliens," Elle said quietly, smile on her face.

It wasn't aliens, though both would have likely preferred that to what actually awaited them at headquarters.


End file.
